Don't Let Them Change You
by Half-Winchester
Summary: A small baker boy's teary three-fingered goodbye. This is the parting gesture Ianthe Iona gets as she leaves District 12, ready for her end without a fight. District 12's tributes don't come home anymore anyway.


"Ianthe Iona."

I let out the breath I'd been holding. I had seen this coming, hadn't I? Waken up this morning and known it. Known it was my last day here.

So, then, why hadn't I prepared?

The girls around me are staring at me. I take a step towards the edge of the crowd, heading towards the part between two crowds.

I had woken up. Hadn't eaten. Gotten dressed in clothes my father had dug out from my mother's old things. Let my hair down for once, brushed it out nice. Sat on the edge of my bed and waited. Just waited. Didn't visit anyone or go anywhere. Just sat.

This is what I did every Reaping day, though. Every year, terrified and certain that I'd be the name called. This day wasn't unusual.

Except, this day, my name did get called. This was real.

There are four Peacekeepers flanking me. I head quietly towards the stage. Effie Trinket is staring at me, waving her hand and coaxing me forward. I don't want to look at her, though. I want to look at him.

My head turns and our eyes meet. This makes today even more extraordinary. I've hardly talked to him, let alone shared a meaningful gaze.

His blue eyes smolder into mine. I feel the unpreventable smile pluck at my mouth. I'm at the stage now, and I have to break our silent coming together so that I can walk up the steps.

It's as if everything is muted. There's a roaring in my ears as everyone is speaking. Effie says something, then Haymitch, District 12's only living victor. Then, they're pulling the boy's name, and I feel my senses return as I become vaguely aware that the wrong name could be pulled. _Nobody in District 12 makes it out anymore._

The name isn't his, and I find his blue eyes in the crowd again, relief sweeping over me. He'll be alright.

He knows I'm looking at him. His hand comes to his mouth and his presses his lips to his fingers, holding three up at his eye level so I can see them.

_Thank you, I admire you, I love you. Goodbye. _

I give him a slight nod as I shake hands with the male tribute, a boy much larger than me.

I don't use my fingers. He isn't going anywhere, I am. I pucker my lips and send a small kiss in his direction.

He nods again. _He knows now._

xxXXxx

Regret. That's what swims over me as my father stares at me, his eyes dead in the meeting room of the Justice Building.

He already lost my mother. It's unfortunate when it happens, when someone in District 12 starves to death. It's not unusual though. It was unspoken, but my father always managed to express the fact that if they hadn't had my extra mouth to feed, she'd have been alright.

He hasn't said much and the clock is ticking.

Regret. Regretting that I never told that blue eyed beauty how I felt about him. Regretting that I hadn't even stopped at the bakery all those Reapings when I was certain I was about to die.

"I don't want to talk anymore." I looked up at my father as he is heading for the door.

"Wait!" Now I'm anxious. This is my only chance.

My father stares at me. What else could I possibly want?

"The baker's son," I jumble out. "The Mellark boy?"

My father furrows his brow, confusion lacing his features. "Yes?"

"Send him in here." I can feel myself shaking. "Please."

My father still looks confused, but nods. He leaves quickly, sensing my urgency.

My father is a miner, but a drunk one at that. He's hardly ever conscious. It's a wonder I haven't been taken away to a community home. He'll know though. He must've seen the drawings I've left around the house.

I sit, my leg tapping furiously. It feels like ages until the door finally opens a crack. I stand quickly, joy bursting forth.

However, the guards dressed in white don't walk in the boy I've been dreaming about. They walk in a small, wiry boy who can't be more than 10. However, he has the same blue eyes that I was looking for, staring up at me.

My last bit of hope drains. I glance at one of the guards. "It didn't occur to anyone that I wanted the boy _my _age?" He had two younger brothers, I should've accounted for that in my instructions to my father.

The guard doesn't respond.

"Could you get the _oldest _Mellark boy, please?" I ask softly, oh-so gently.

"You have thirty minutes. Use it wisely." Then the two guards disappear, and the small boy is staring up at me with those big blue eyes.

I let out a small laugh. "You look more scared than I do."

The boy doesn't respond. His eyes are hesitant, his mouth pursed shut.

This must be some sort of joke. What else could I have expected from my father, though? Coherence?

Suddenly, the small boy steps forward and pulls his hands, which had been clutched behind his back, forward, holding out a small white parcel. "For you."

"Thank you." I take it and carefully lift a corner.

"Cookies. My dad said to bring them with me." His voice is even softer than mine.

The smile plucks at my lips again. I set the parcel aside, looking at the boy before me. "Does your brother know you're here?"

The boy shakes his head. "They stopped my parents and had them bring me."

I nod, tilting my head. I know I must've heard this boy's name before somewhere.

"Peeta," he speaks without prompting.

Peeta Mellark. I let myself smile. This is alright, really. I have around half an hour left. No harm in spending it with the little brother of the boy I'm infatuated with. At least I'm not alone.

"You wanted my brother to come, didn't you?"

I shrug. "It doesn't matter. _You_ came."

After a brief pause, he speaks again. "You're the one who's always around helping in our classroom."

I nod. "Yeah, I am." Now I remember. He's the boy who always sits in the corner, hands neatly folded, while the other kids run around. The one who paints the beautiful pictures whenever we have the chance to paint. Peeta Mellark.

"You draw with me sometimes. When everyone else goes outside."

I nod. "Want to draw now?"

He nods, eyes big.

I look around, and see a pile of parchments in the corner, along side some graphite pencils. I take Peeta's hand gently, while pulling the chair along to the table.

He doesn't climb onto the chair like I expect. Instead he gestures, like a true gentleman, for me to sit. I laugh as I do, and then even more when he crawls up into my lap.

"Looks like I've got a new friend."

He nods, taking a pencil and a page, beginning to draw. I do the same.

After a long while, I finally speak up. "Peeta you've seen the Games, right?"

He nods. "Everybody sees them." He looks up at me. "You're going to win, right?"

I am surprised at this, and look away from his blue oceans before responding. "No, Peeta, I won't." I say it so softly, almost wishing he wouldn't hear it.

"But, if you don't win you'll die!" He exclaims, dropping his pencil.

I let out a breath and put down my own pencil. I've known it for years, haven't I? Every year, when I sit on that bed, I know it. I accepted my own morality ages ago, when my mother died. But, the Games. The Games are something different. If you win the Hunger Games, you're a murderer. You've killed 23 people, whether it was by your hand or not. But, how to explain this to a little kid who still gets to go out for recess and hasn't even thought about the possibility of his name going in those bowls?

"Peeta, the thing about the Hunger Games is that it changes human nature. It makes people act differently from who they really are."

Peeta nods, picking up his pencil and continuing to draw. "I just don't want you to die." He just barely whispers.

"We all die eventually, Peeta. It's really sad when it happens, but everybody dies." I pull him in tightly and kiss the top of his head. "If I'm gonna die, I want to die as myself, you know?"

We draw in silence for awhile. Once I'm done, I grab another page and begin scripting the last words I'll probably be able to express to the boy I will never see again.

Finally, Peeta begins to crawl off of me, holding his own paper to his chest. I take my own and scrawl across the bottom: _For Peeta, the boy who paints. Love, Ianthe._

I hand it out to him. "Keep this and remember what I told you, alright?"

He looks over the picture I've drawn of me and him sitting on the chair. "You're really nice." He looks at me. "I'll keep it forever." His hand extends, holding me out his page.

I nearly gasp. It's a fantastic picture of District 12, a collage of different images, he and his brother not at all left out.

"You can bring something from the district in, right?"

I nod. "Here, sign it, Peeta. Please."

He does so and hands it back to me. "What's that?" He points to the third page as I'm folding it up.

"I want you to give this to your brother." I slide the paper into his breast pocket. "If something happens to me, I want you to have him read it."

"Can I read it?" He asks.

I smile at him. "Of course, Peeta."

"And you'll bring that in?" He points to his marvelous drawing.

I nod, smiling.

The door opens, and a guard steps in.

I give Peeta a quick hug and press my lips to his cheek where a tear has tracked down it. "I'm glad you came, Peeta."

But his fingers latch to my shirt, he isn't letting go. Too quickly, the guards are pulling him back, and he is crying buckets. One Peacekeeper throws him over his shoulder , and as they pull him out, I watch as Peeta presses his fingers hastily to his lips and holds out three fingers.

_Thank you, I admire you, I love you. Goodbye. _

I collapse in the chair once the door shuts; looking down at the picture Peeta has drawn me. Next to his name he has written: _Don't let them change you. _

I feel myself begin to cry. I hide my face in the quiet of the room, knowing that this may be my last moment off camera.

May the odds remain in your favor, Peeta Mellark.


End file.
